


If the Fates Allow

by Dracze



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alfred is a Batjokes Anti, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Bruce Wayne, Amnesiac Joker (DCU), Angst, Batjokes Santa, Bittersweet, Character Study, Christmas, Dark, Established Relationship, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, New 52, POV Alfred Pennyworth, Past Amputation, Past Violence, Physical Disability, sentient gotham, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracze/pseuds/Dracze
Summary: “Alfred?” Bruce is gazing at him, quietly pleading, his arm still wound around the monster’s waist.The ultimate insult.But this is Bruce. And for better or worse, he’ll always come first.----Bruce brings his new boyfriend to Wayne Manor for Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 45
Kudos: 167
Collections: A very Batjokes Christmas





	If the Fates Allow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectricNeko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricNeko/gifts).



> Happy holidays, ElectricNeko!! <333 I chose "amnesiacs" out of the canon preferences you listed, and I'm not sure if this is quite what you had in mind - but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> This is set in the nu52 Batman verse, post-Endgame and post-Batman #48, where it takes a canon divergence approach. The boys are in an established relationship in this one, Bruce isn't Batman yet, and I know that technically Bruce didn't move back into Wayne Manor until he regained his memories, but I wanted to set the story there, so it's half-open in this fic. Alfred allowed it, however reluctantly, because it was better to give in a little than fight a stubborn Bruce and arouse his suspicions.
> 
> The warnings are in the tags, but this is a dark piece, and I just want to reiterate that Joker cut off Alfred's right hand in "Endgame," and I didn't gloss over that here. His post-"Endgame" suicidal tendencies come **heavily** into play in this one, as well. And Alfred is definitely not a Joker fan, so that colors the entire piece, culminating in the last-but-one scene. There's a gun involved. So, as usual, folks - proceed at your own discretion.
> 
> Happy holidays, everyone, and congratulations on making it through 2020! Please let me know if you enjoyed the story <33

The moment Alfred hears the distant rustle of the car barrelling past the front gate and onto the gravel driveway, he very nearly lets the whisky decanter slip from his fingers and to the floor. 

_They’re here._

His hands tremble with the sound. He sets the decanter down on the drinks trolley, and it clinks ominously, rattling the glasses. 

Alfred takes a moment, clasping his treacherous hands together behind his back so tight the glove on his left hand stretches taut over his nails, threatening to rip. Alfred never lets up. He has no choice. He keeps pressing, clutching onto the cold gloved prosthesis on his right hand until he bullies the tremor into submission.

His eyes sweep over the parlor, one last time. The tree, tall as the room itself and brushing the ceiling with its star-shaped tip, lit and decorated and magnificent. The few presents Bruce allowed, piled underneath, wrapped and ready, the packaging pristine, not a wrinkle out of place. The furniture, dusted. The windows, spotless. The curtains, washed and pressed. The floor and the carpets, vacuumed within an inch of their lives. The decorations: strings of lights, stockings over the hearth, boughs of holly pinned to the curtains. 

The first Christmas back in Wayne Manor, and through Alfred’s efforts this one room, at least, looks as though no time has passed at all. Everything’s in order, gleaming and warm and inviting and perfect, the recent bad ghosts properly banished, the good ones making themselves at home again. 

Just the way it should be; just as it’s always been.

And all Alfred wants to do is tear it all down. 

The engine’s murmur rolls to a stop. The rustle dies. Alfred can hear the car doors open, and quiet laughter invades the yard.

He closes his eyes, gives his hand another hard pinch — the tremor’s already threatening its way back — and makes his way to the kitchen.

The voices reach him there far too soon, sweeping over the driveway to the tune of boots crunching on snow. Bruce’s deep, gentle baritone. And —

And _him_.

Alfred’s left hand starts to shake again, just as his right explodes into an itchy phantom throb that’s bothered him ever since he woke up this morning. He doesn’t rub at the prosthesis. He takes his time putting the dishes away into the correct cupboards, all gleaming, until the front door groans open and the voices spill into the entrance hall.

Alfred shuts his eyes for another moment, and takes a breath. He readjusts his starched, stiff livery, smoothes a hand over his hair, and adjusts the gloves. He straightens a rigid extra inch, and spares a moment to examine his reflection in the polished glass of the silver cabinet. 

He knows Bruce would never see it that way. But Alfred knows a thing or two about armor, too.

He tarries for another second or two, forcibly smoothing over his features, focusing on the line of tension digging a deep furrow across his forehead. It takes longer to hide it than it should. 

Than it used to.

Then again, Alfred supposes even he must start getting old someday; and today is more appropriate of a day to age than most.

The day his son brings home the —

The stump of his right hand feels slimy, crawling with an itch that only gets worse with every passing second. Alfred stops himself before the furrow in his forehead can dig its way back out. He allows himself a final glance-over, just the one — but he’s already as battle-ready as he’ll ever be, and he knows, deep in his heart, that he’ll never be ready for _this_.

He goes out into the hall.

And right into his worst nightmare.

They’re here. In the doorway, the double doors thrown open, letting in the cold. Their bags dropped to the floor. 

A sprig of mistletoe hanging above them as they kiss.

The mistletoe wasn’t there before, Alfred thinks distantly, staring at the thing with everything he is while his stomach churns and lurches and his body encases itself in a fresh coating of ice. He made absolutely sure to take them all down after Bruce left. 

Which means that Bruce must have put it there on purpose, right before he brought _him_ in.

Alfred clears his throat, and the sound is startlingly loud in the hall. Louder than he meant it to be. But he had no choice. Another second of this, and he’ll either be sick, or he won’t be able to resist the temptation to run back to the kitchen and grab a knife.

They pull apart. But not by much. Bruce turns towards Alfred, but he still keeps his arms around _him_ , and doesn’t step away. 

“There you are,” Bruce says, beaming easily, melting snowflakes caught in his beard, his cheeks pink with frost, his eyes bright and blue. “Alfred, meet —”

“Hello, Mr. Pennyworth,” says the monster, the creature, the shadow. “Bruce’s told me so much about you. It’s good to finally meet you.”

And then, like it or not, Alfred finally has to look at him.

It’s a good enough disguise, he supposes grudgingly. The spooked, timid, brittle smile; the watery, downcast eyes; the embarrassed blush. The pale but deceptively normal skin tone. The limp dark hair, wet with snow. The clothes, a white overcoat, black scarf and gloves, the mud-brown snow boots, all of it worn, scuffed and second-hand, plain and unassuming. 

_Normal_.

The bone structure remains much the same, of course. So does the figure. Alfred supposes even the city couldn’t change _everything_ about him, and, as if tempting fate — or maybe to make some sort of statement, which is more likely of the two — the tie he chose for the occasion is purple. 

Still, if one didn’t know any better, Alfred supposes one could almost be fooled. 

If not for the eyes. 

The monster dares to tug one glove off, and stick out his right hand to shake. Alfred glances down at it, then back to his eyes, as green as they’ve ever been.

As green as they were the night he dragged himself to shore, crawling out of the water like a pale spider, and raised the blade, and struck down, laughing as blood splattered the rocks.

“Alfred?” Bruce is gazing at him, quietly pleading, his arm still wound around the monster’s waist.

The ultimate insult. 

But this is Bruce. And for better or worse, he’ll always come first.

“Charmed,” Alfred tells the monster, reaching out to touch his hand with his prosthesis. 

Green eyes stare down at it, and widen. The monster gasps. It comes out studied, as much a performance as his greeting was. 

Alfred’s heart goes just that little bit colder. 

“What —”

“An accident,” Alfred tells him smoothly, still holding his eye. 

“Oh.” The monster drops his own hand, glancing once again at Alfred’s prosthesis. “I’m sorry.”

Alfred’s mouth wants to tug into a smile so bitter and cruel he has to bite down on his cheek to keep it in. The monster looks up into his eyes, and catches him at it. His eyes, green like the toxicity he brings with him everywhere he goes, don’t change. 

But the evil lurking inside them sharpens, crawling that little bit closer to the surface, and the cold part of Alfred welcomes the sight. 

He was right about him.

“Come on.” Bruce steps in, interrupting the silent stand-off. “We’ll drop the stuff under the tree and then I’ll give you the grand tour. We’ll have dinner in the sitting room, Alfred, as discussed, but only tonight. We’re spending Christmas Day with the kids at the center.”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred says smoothly.

He reaches out to take their coats, letting years of training steer him through it. Bruce shakes his head. 

“We’ll take care of that,” he tells him, smiling. “I told you, I don’t want any of that bowing and scraping business. You’ve got more than enough work here without us adding to the pile.”

“Speaking of which!” The monster interrupts, bending down to pick one of his bags off the floor.

He extends it to Alfred, smiling that frail, wobbly little smile that’s so devilishly convincing and yet still not quite enough to disguise him. 

“This is for you,” he says in a soft, quiet voice, as wobbly and brittle as the smile. “A slab of our best quality pork. For — for dinner. Bruce said —”

“How kind,” Alfred manages, taking the bag. 

“It’s from our shop. The butcher’s, I mean. Where I work? Has Bruce told you? When my manager heard I’d be going here for Christmas, she absolutely insisted that I bring some —”

“Please do pass on my thanks,” Alfred says frostily. “Now, would that be all?”

“Do you need any help in the kitchen?” The monster asks, his voice climbing steadily higher as his fingers worry over his threadbare gloves. “I could —”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve got everything well in hand.”

“Told you,” Bruce mutters into the monster’s ear, and the monster casts his eyes down, his smile just as fidgety now as his hands, a blush staining his neck. “Come on, let’s leave him to cook in peace. We’ll get out of your hair now, Alfred.”

Alfred nods, and steps to the side. They pass him, Bruce’s hand still firm around the monster’s thin waist. Green eyes flit up to his as they walk past, and then immediately fix down on the floor again. Bruce sends Alfred a look, as well, tightening his hold, his face slipping the tender mask for just a blink to show his disapproval. 

Alfred watches them with his very best servant’s blank. He stands where he is until they disappear into the parlor.

“I don’t think he likes me,” he hears the monster say in that deceptively soft, flighty voice, hushed now but still carrying over to Alfred in this old, loyal house. 

“He’s possessive of his kitchen,” Bruce’s voice answers. “Doesn’t like strangers in it.”

“I think it’s more than that. He looked just about ready to take me out back and give me the shovel talk. I just… I wish there was something I could say to convince him that I wouldn’t — that I won’t —”

“Hey.” Bruce’s voice is warm. Gentle. “Stop that. It’s okay. You’ll have more time to win him over. Now leave those bags and come here so I can —”

Alfred stalks back to the kitchen, and shuts the door. 

And throws the pork in the garbage.

***

Dinner, despite the jazz carols floating around the room, is a predictably tense affair. 

“This is such a gorgeous house,” the monster tries, nervously fumbling with his soup spoon.

Bruce smiles over his mouthful. Alfred sits up straight, and keeps his silence.

“And so well kept!” The monster continues despite the frosty atmosphere. “I mean, sure, most of the rooms are shut down, but still, it’s terribly impressive. I really don’t know how you do it, Alfr— Mr. Pennyworth.”

“I keep telling Alfred we should repurpose it,” Bruce says. “The whole thing. I’m not gonna start living here again — what’s the point? I prefer to be in the thick of it now, where I can do the most good. I only opened it back up to take a look at the place and see what we could do with it.”

“And to spend Christmas in your family home,” Alfred says, gently, his eyes on Bruce. 

“Well, maybe,” Bruce agrees, but with marked reluctance, ducking his head. “But still. That doesn’t mean all that much to me now that I don’t even _remember_ my family. All that space, for just two people? It’s ridiculous. I can’t imagine it ever feeling like a home and not a museum, or a — or a tomb. And the city could use it. Make it a school, maybe, or a shelter, or —”

“The city has had their chance with it,” Alfred says. “I wouldn’t entrust the estate to them again.” 

“You mean, when this used to be Arkham Manor?” the monster asks. 

Alfred hesitates. So does Bruce. Their eyes lock across the table before Bruce catches himself and looks away. 

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Though obviously I don’t remember that, either. It was before the…”

“The attack,” the monster whispers. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean —”

“It’s okay.” Bruce smiles at him, and lays his hand over the monster’s.

The monster smiles back, and his gaze is sickeningly soft when he says, “Well, this _is_ a beautiful place, and I’m glad I could see it. But your apartment in the city suits you much better. And the kids like you just where you are: close by.”

“Just the kids?” Bruce asks, lighting up again.

“Well.” The monster winks at him. “Maybe not _just_ the kids.”

He shifts closer to Bruce, as if to kiss him.

Alfred clears his throat. 

“I have a cleaning crew come over and help me out every two weeks,” he says loudly as the monster pulls away, looking guilty. “Master Bruce values his privacy. We used to have the full complement of staff in the past, though; most of them lived here, in the house.”

“Bruce showed me the rooms up in the attic.” The tips of the monster’s ears glow pink through the dark hair swept over them. “It really is quite something. Must have taken everyone ages to find their way around here. I thought I was gonna have to ask Brucie for a map!”

He laughs, softly and nervously, squeezing his spoon until his knuckles go white. Bruce gives him an indulgent smile, and strokes his hand. 

Alfred stands up, letting his chair scrape loudly across the floor. 

“Time for the second course, I think,” he announces. 

“Here, let me help you clean up,” Bruce offers, already halfway out of his own chair. 

“I’ll handle it, Master Bruce,” Alfred tells him, perhaps a touch too fast. Too dry. Too telling. 

Bruce’s brow furrows tight, and his mouth pinches as he sits back down. 

Alfred clears the plates much more noisily than he normally would. He turns and heads for the door as quickly as he dares without running, before the churning, hot-and-cold bile climbs any higher up his throat. 

“What are we having?” the monster asks, quietly. 

Alfred turns. He looks him in the eye for a moment. 

“Lamb.”

***

When he returns, he finds both Bruce and the monster wearing a pair of ridiculous Christmas sweaters over their shirts. 

“I got one for you, too, Mr. Pennyworth,” the monster says, smiling his brittle smile, getting out of his chair. “We seem to be roughly the same size, so I hope it’ll fit. Here.”

He points to a festive bag sitting on Alfred’s chair. 

Alfred looks at it, and says nothing. 

“I, uh.” The monster fumbles with another bag, drops it, and picks it up again. He starts taking out hand-made, crown-shaped, colorful paper hats. “I also made these. I read that it’s tradition to wear them in England, so. So I, um. I thought I’d —” 

“That’s very kind,” Alfred says, as icily as he dares. “But I’m quite comfortable as I am.”

“Oh.” The monster’s eyebrows plunge, and he sits back down. “Well, of course. Now that I’ve met you, I can see you’re far too dignified for all that.”

“I’m too used to my livery,” Alfred explains, only softening his tone by a fraction when he catches Bruce’s pleading gaze. “I’d be entirely too flushed if I put a sweater over it, too. And I wouldn’t want to ruin the hat.”

“Well, you’re missing out,” Bruce says firmly. He reaches for one of the hats and promptly puts it on his head, over his long messy hair, and stares Alfred down, defiant. “These are great. I love mine. Thank you,” he says to the monster, and leans in to kiss his cheek.

Alfred busies himself setting down the second course, keeping his eyes down. The clink of the trays, plates and cutlery doesn’t drown out the sound of the kiss, though, nor the soft, breathless giggle the monster lets out. 

Alfred’s hand trembles as he sets down the gravy boat. He doesn’t spill any. 

But it’s a close thing.

***

“I need you to stop that.”

“Stop what?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Alfred,” Bruce insists, coming into the kitchen and folding his arms across his chest. 

Still wearing that damn sweater and hat.

“You’ve been antagonizing him since he stepped through the door,” Bruce accuses in an urgent whisper. “I don’t know what your problem with him is, but it needs to stop. Now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Master Bruce.”

“Alfred. Please.” Bruce stalks over to stand next to Alfred and leans against the table, demanding attention. “He’s important to me. He — he makes me _happy_.”

That... hurts. As much as the mistletoe. As much as the hand-holding. As much as the softness he sees in Bruce’s eyes when he turns to look at _him_. 

Alfred catches the hurt before it can pull at the muscles on his face where Bruce can see, and forces it down. He stills, pausing with his knife midway through chopping the strawberry. 

“And Jules?” he asks, quietly, because damn if he won’t at least _try_. “How is she doing?”

Bruce lets out an irritated huff. “She’s fine, but that’s not what you’re asking, is it? Well, I’m sorry, I know you liked her, but we’re not getting back together. That’s that.” 

“And Miss Kyle? Surely if you reached out —”

“Alfred.”

“I’m merely trying to help you, Bruce.”

“Why? That’s what I’m trying to understand. He’s trying so hard. You must see that. Why won’t you give him a chance? You’ve never been this way about Jules, or anyone else. What is it about _him_ that makes him so objectionable that you can’t even find a single smile for him on Christmas Eve?”

Alfred sighs. He puts the knife down, carefully, and puts both hands flat on the table.

He knows what Bruce wants him to say. But Alfred failed to protect his son in Bruce’s previous life. He won’t be making the same mistake again now just because a part of him would prefer to spare Bruce the cutting pain of truth — to allow the illusion he’s built around himself to go intact for just a little bit longer.

Alfred was perfectly happy to let him, but it’s gone too far now, and with _his_ reappearance, he knows their time of peace is up. He can almost hear the city out there like a ticking bomb, cutting up time they’ve got left into seconds that each bring them closer and closer to disaster far worse than the pain of Alfred’s disapproval could ever be.

And he needs Bruce to _see_.

“He’s not right for you,” Alfred whispers.

“How can you be so sure?” Bruce demands, as angry now as Alfred knew he would be. “You’ve only met him today, for god’s sake.”

“Bruce.”

“It’s not — This isn’t —” Bruce falters, but then resolves to carry on. “This isn't because we’re both men, is it? Because if you have a problem with me being bisexual…”

He drops off. Silence drapes over the kitchen, letting his words ring hollow, exposing the desperate pretence behind them. 

Slowly, Alfred pulls himself up, and turns to look his son in the eye. 

“That’s not it,” he says, quietly, “and you know it.”

Bruce takes a longer beat to reply this time. 

“Then why?” he asks in a soft, beseeching whisper, as though begging Alfred to play along with it regardless; to let them stay on this script they both know to be false.

Alfred dearly wishes he could. But he _will_ protect his child, whatever it takes.

“Do you really need to ask me that?” he asks, even more quietly. “Do you really _not_ understand why I’m against this man being here, in your ancestral home?”

This time, the silence lingers too long. Not by much. 

But by enough.

Bruce looks away, and Alfred’s heart — barely stitched together as it is, and breaking apart again piece by piece ever since Bruce first told him about the mysterious man he met on the bench by the lake — shatters for good. 

“I need you to try,” he whispers. “Please, Alfred. For me.”

For the first time since he started work in this house, Alfred’s voice trembles on its way out. “And what if I can’t?”

Bruce ducks his head. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. And all Alfred wants to do is step up to him, and hold him — his son, his child, his boy — and stroke his hair, and tell him everything will be alright.

“Try,” Bruce tells him. “He’s staying the night, by the way. We won’t be needing a guest bedroom.” 

He leaves.

Alfred closes his eyes. 

***

“Do you play?” the monster asks. 

Bruce follows his gaze to the grand piano in the corner of the room, and smiles.

“Alfred tells me I did,” he says, stretching the arm he’s got draped over the back of the sofa, and then letting it fall on the monster’s shoulder.

Alfred brings the cup of tea close to his lips and looks through the liquid to the bottom.

“You took lessons,” he agrees, quietly, without lifting his gaze from the cup.

“Was I any good?”

“Actually, yes, you were.” The memory is warm in Alfred’s chest, and he clings to it to thaw the worst of the frost coating his heart. “You didn’t see much sense to it, and complained profusely. But when you sat down to play, you were as focused and diligent about it as you were about everything else you attempted. You took to it very quickly, too. You told me once, in confidence, that the mathematical side of it appealed to you, and then begged me not to tell your mother or she would make you take even more lessons.”

“I knew you were one of those gifted kids,” the monster whispers. 

What little warmth Alfred’s managed to squeeze out of the memory evaporates immediately. He takes another sip of hot tea, but that’s no substitute, and he has to suppress a shiver. 

“Quite,” he says, stiffly. “Master Bruce was exceedingly gifted. It’s a pity he didn’t see much use in cultivating his artistic talents for pleasure.”

“Not much has changed in that regard,” Bruce admits with a shrug, settling more comfortable on the sofa beside the monster, balancing his mug of mulled wine on his knee. 

“Oh please,” the monster objects with that brittle pretend-smile of his. “Don’t tell me you’re that much of a science nerd. I saw you with the kids at the center. You know the value of art as well as the next activist.”

“In an abstract way, sure,” Bruce allows with an easy smile, which, under any other circumstances, Alfred would be thrilled to see on his face.

Now, it only makes his heart ache all the harder. 

“I mean,” Bruce continues, “I’m not denying its worth, and I admire the people who can create it. I know it’s important. I just don’t personally have the patience for that kind of slow-acting change in roundabout ways. I prefer direct action.”

“I don’t believe that’s as true as you want it to be,” the monster whispers.

Alfred looks up at him, sharply. But his green eyes are downcast, fixed on a mug of hot chocolate — he declined the wine, or any other kind of alcohol — and he sits up tight on the edge of the sofa as though he’s afraid to take up any more space than he has to, even with Bruce pulling him close. 

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce asks, sounding more amused than anything. 

The monster raises his eyes to him, and smiles. “I only mean that, if that’s your long-winded attempt to weasel out of playing for me, then it’s not gonna work.”

Bruce laughs. He _laughs_.

And Alfred’s eyes feel wet. 

“I really don’t remember how to play,” Bruce insists. 

“Then let’s try it together,” the monster suggests. “Maybe, between the two of us, we can wrestle that old thing into submission.” 

“It’s gonna be a disaster,” Bruce says. He pulls the monster in closer, his arm around him, and smiles. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

The monster laughs. It’s a small, timid sound, a perfect match for the rest of his disguise, except that it comes even more studied — more tightly controlled — than the rest of him. 

Like he’s afraid that if he laughs any harder, something unintended might come out. 

Alfred watches with a cold, tight heart as the two of them make their way to the piano, shoulders and hands brushing as they go. Even when they sit on the stool that really is wide enough to fit two people comfortably, they’re close enough together that their bodies press up against each other, and their fingers touch when they lay their hands down over the keyboard. 

They’ve been doing that all night. Fleeting, lingering touches, almost accidental but constant, to go with their fleeting, lingering looks. As though they can’t stand _not_ to touch. As though they need to keep making sure that the other one’s still there. That this is real, and not a dream.

Or maybe it’s the other way around, Alfred realizes as he watches them at the piano, eyes stinging with unshed tears, heart fracturing into brand new cracks. Maybe they know, or at least suspect, that this _is_ a dream, fragile and wrestled out of impossibility; and they keep touching the other to keep the both of them inside it, to pull them even deeper under and make sure the other one doesn’t wake up.

 _Tick-tock_ , hums the city, and Alfred’s stump itches so hard he has to bite down on his lip to stop himself from wrestling the prosthesis off and scratching the skin bloody.

Even so, bad as it is, Alfred welcomes the pain. He’d fill all of himself up with it if he could. It’s better than the crushing, all-consuming heartache of the moment when he heard that Bruce had died; and the heartache of the present, with his child returned to him alive and well and whole again, only for all of it to be snatched up again.

And it’s both that tear at him when the pair at the piano begin to play.

They fumble, at first. Start on a melody, and then bungle it up. They laugh, heads bent close together, and then start again, and again, and again, “No, here, try it like this,” “I think it goes like this,” “No, no, this sounds all wrong, here, how about —”, “Maybe this way,” “We really suck at this, don’t we.” 

And Bruce’s eyes gleam and twinkle as he laughs. And he looks at the monster, and him alone. 

And the monster gazes at Bruce like he’s the only thing in the world that will ever matter. 

It isn’t long before Alfred abandons his tea for mulled wine, only just barely resisting the urge to snatch the whisky decanter instead. By then, the pair by the piano have hit their stride. They’re lost into a chaotic, improvised melody, Bruce steadily hitting the lower notes in a regular, measured rhythm while the monster compliments him on the higher end of the scale with nervous, twitchy, irregular tune that never manages to sound coherent — or maybe, it never wants to.

But it does go surprisingly well with Bruce’s efforts, and together, they’re achieving a feverish, almost disquieting…

Harmony.

Unlikely. Chaotic, frantic and messy. 

But harmony, all the same.

It plays itself out steadily. Stallingly. In fits and starts, as though neither of the two men truly wants to be the one to stop. 

Eventually, though, the monster plays the finishing couple of notes — slow, ringing out into the room with something like an echo, and then lets his hand drop off the keyboard.

He turns, wordlessly, and buries his face in Bruce’s shoulder. His breath is loud in the new, tinkling silence, and comes out wet, like a sob. 

Bruce puts both arms around him at once, turning on the stool, and the monster clings to him, drawing closer. 

“It’s alright,” Bruce whispers into the monster’s hair. “It’s alright.”

His voice is quiet, and gentle, and full of —

Alfred gets up, and starts to clean the table. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says.

The two men by the piano don’t reply. The last thing Alfred sees before he flees to the kitchen is his son, sitting there with that monster in his arms, holding him for all he’s worth, his eyes tightly shut. 

***

Alfred is slow collecting the dishes, and slow washing each of them by hand. He draws out the process of packaging the leftovers in foil and storing them, some in the fridge, some in the basement storage. Then, he wipes down the counters and the table, dries the dishes, and puts them away. And when everything’s done, he sits at the table, hands folded, eyes closed, his heart beating hard and fast.

In the end, it’s the moan that finally draws him out.

He already knows what he’ll find if he returns to the main parlor. And he doesn’t want to see it. 

But his feet carry him to the door all the same, soundless as ever after so many years of practice.

“He’ll see us,” the monster whispers, on the floor by the hearth.

His hair’s in disarray. His face is flushed. His sweater lies abandoned, draped over the back of the couch, and his hat’s disappeared. The couch blocks out Alfred’s view of the rest, but he can see Bruce hovering above him, the monster’s legs hooked around him like now that they’ve got him, they never want to let him go.

“I don’t care,” Bruce whispers back, leaning down to kiss him as he undoes the buttons of the monster’s shirt, his own sweater gone, too, along with his turtleneck. “Let him see. Let him know that you’re not going anywhere.”

“Bruce —” Bruce kisses his neck. The monster gasps, closing his eyes, arching, twisting his head to the side.

“Is this okay?”

“I’m —”

“Yes?”

The shirt falls off the monster’s shoulders. Bruce kisses his neck again, then up to his jaw, his cheeks, his eyes.

When the monster opens them, they come away wet, and tears spill down his cheeks.

“Hey. Hey. What is it?”

“Nothing.” The monster laughs, shaky, breathless, squeezing his eyes shut again and letting more tears spill out before he gazes up at Bruce, and caresses his cheek. “Absolutely nothing. I’m just —”

“Yeah?”

“Happy.” The tears keep coming, but the monster smiles through them, gazing up at Bruce and letting out another short, startled, desperate chuckle. “God, you make me so happy, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce smiles back at him, leaning down until their noses touch. “Well, then,” he murmurs. “Let’s see if I can make you even happier.”

“I love you,” the monster says, through the tears that still haven’t stopped.

Bruce pauses. So does Alfred’s heart.

Then, Bruce leans down, that soft, soft expression warm on his face, and Alfred turns away, and leaves as fast as he can.

He’d rather die than hear Bruce say the words back.

***

He doesn’t look where he’s going. He doesn’t need to. His feet know the house intimately, and they know, just by the texture of the rugs and the creaks in the floor, where they are.

All in all, he’s not surprised to find himself in the library.

It’s dark in here. Silent, the clock long since stopped.

Alfred doesn’t turn on the light.

His hands shake when he pours himself whisky. They shake harder still when he collapses into the chair, right over the dust sheet, the clock still and looming behind him.

He nearly spills the drink as he brings it up to his mouth, and downs most of it in one go so it burns as it goes down.

Only then does he let his eyes come up, to face the portrait on the wall.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to Thomas and Martha, watching him from the shadows above the mantle. “I’m sorry. I failed. I couldn’t keep him safe. He’s got him now, and the city’s got them both. It’s only a matter of time.”

 _Tick-tock_ , goes Gotham, its light painting the night bright beyond the windows.

Alfred stays in the chair, facing the portrait and draining his glass, and pouring another.

“I can’t stop it,” he whispers, and his hand shakes so much that, this time, the liquid spills down the sides and over his glove. “I’m sorry. I know what I have to do, but I don’t know if I _can_. If I’m strong enough.”

Martha and Thomas look down on him in silent condemnation. Alfred drops his gaze, and turns to the window. 

He waits for dawn like this, hurting too much to move, while downstairs, Bruce makes love to a monster.

***

The next morning, the whole house is quiet as Alfred collects the breakfast tray. Alfred’s spent the better part of his life here, and he knows what this particular hushed, expectant silence means.

The house is waiting to see what he’ll do.

He feels her eyes on him as he brings the tray up, not to the master bedroom — Bruce refused to touch it — but to the room Bruce occupied as a boy and chose as his own this time around. The portraits on the walls follow him with their unmoving gazes. The floors guide his steps with quiet groans of wood. The shadows scatter out of his way.

 _I’ll try_ , he promises the house. _I have to at least try._

The bedroom’s dark — but not dark enough. Alfred can still see the two men in the bed, naked and unmoving, tangled up together with the sheets bunched up between them, the monster on his stomach, Bruce draped over his back as though protecting him with his own body…

… Or pinning him down so he doesn’t disappear. 

Alfred stops in the doorway to wait out his own heart, rattling chest and beating against his old, fragile ribs. He closes his eyes for a moment, but it’s no use — the image’s already imprinted there, and refuses to go no matter how much he tries to banish it. 

And the smell, hanging thick in the room, is just as bad.

The tremor in his hand is starting up again. Alfred forces himself past the threshold and into the room, and slowly, he lowers the breakfast tray on the nightstand on Bruce’s side of the bed.

The men don’t stir. So Alfred stalks over to the windows and opens the curtains, letting daylight in, and then opens the window, too, sticking his head out into the cold gust of wind to chase the bedroom smell out of his nostrils. 

When he turns, the monster’s watching him.

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispers over a calm, serene smile. “Aren’t you?”

Alfred holds his gaze for a long, long moment while, around them, the house goes quieter still, as though holding her breath.

He nods.

“Did you bring it?” the monster asks. “Do you have it on you?”

Once again, Alfred nods. His hands don’t shake when he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulls out the handgun, and takes aim.

“Good.” The smile settles on the monster’s face, and his eyes are clear for the first time since he stepped foot in the Manor. “That’s — that’s good. I’d have done it myself, but…”

He trails off, shifts to press back against Bruce, and brings Bruce’s arm up to his mouth to kiss it. 

“He stopped me, that first time,” the monster whispers, still smiling. “The night we met. Did he tell you about that? I was ready to do it, too, pull the trigger right then and there. Best to quit while we’re ahead, I said, and I truly believed that. But then he jumped me, and threw my gun into the lake.”

Alfred watches him as the monster kisses Bruce’s arm again, closing his eyes, letting out a deep, shuddering breath. 

“And he kept stopping me ever since,” he whispers into the pillow. “Every time we said goodbye. I’d sit there after, on my bed, with the gun in my hand — I got a new one, though of course I never told him — and I’d stare down the barrel, thinking, today’s the day. Just do it, while you still can. While you can still stop it.” 

He sighs, and looks up at Alfred again. 

“But then I’d think of him,” he whispers, “and I’d tell myself, just another day. Just another date. Just one more. Let’s play-pretend for just a little bit longer, and let ourselves be happy for as long as we can.”

“Selfish,” Alfred whispers, and his hand stays steady.

The monster’s smile returns. He nods easily, nuzzling Bruce’s arm.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I am. Always was, I guess. I know it’s the right thing to do, but I just can’t bring myself to do it on my own anymore. Can’t let this go, now that I have it. So I thought —”

“That’s why you came here.”

“In part. I knew you, of all people, would see things clearly. But it’s the fantasy of it, too — the selfish thing. It made me want to have just one night like this, you know? One Christmas with him that’s normal, with us as a proper couple. To prove that we could. I figure the city owes us that much.”

“It’s not real,” Alfred says. “You know it’s not.”

“Sure. A fantasy, like I said.” The monster sighs again, a low, breathy sound, and his smile is almost radiant when sunlight falls on him. “But so beautiful, nonetheless.”

Alfred doesn’t have any words for that, but then, the monster doesn’t seem to be expecting any. Gently, slowly, he disentangles himself from Bruce’s embrace and sits up on the bed, stretching his arms above his head, the fresh marks on his body on full display. 

“I don’t actually _remember_ , you know,” he says. “No details or anything. I know _what_ I am, I know who I used to be, and I know you probably think I’m deceiving him on purpose or something, but it’s just this — the knowledge. Nothing more than that.” He glances at Alfred, then to the right hand that hangs down Alfred’s side. “I did that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, see? I could tell, just from the way you acted, and there was this gut feeling I get every once in a while. An itch, somewhere in my brain where I know the rest of him is, waiting for his turn back behind the wheel.” He casts his green eyes down, folds his hands in his lap over the bunched-up duvet. “But I don’t know how, or when, or why. A blessing, don’t you think? I can tell it was ugly, all of it. That place in my brain? It’s _dark_. I’m afraid of it, to tell you the truth. And I think the city’s helping me keep it locked up, until… Until it’s time to let it out.

“It’s how I can say this, too,” he picks up, lifting his eyes to Alfred once more. “I _am_ sorry. For the hand and all the rest. The other one couldn’t be, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know how. But I do, and I am, and I want you to know that.”

“I don’t want your apologies.”

“I know. You want me gone. But I wanted to tell you, all the same.”

He looks down at Bruce, and touches his face. Bruce doesn’t stir, but he does let out a soft noise, and the monster’s smile turns sad. 

“He’s happy like this, isn’t he?”

Alfred knows it’s unwise. But he lets his gaze slip from the monster, just for a moment, to glance at the sleeping, healthy, content face of his boy.

His eyes sting again when he says, “He is.”

But his hand stays steady, and the monster only nods, smiling up at him.

“I can hear it,” he tells Alfred in that quiet, pensive whisper. “The city. Ticking away. Won’t be long now, I think. She wants us back.”

He throws his legs to the side of the bed, and stands up. Bruce shifts slightly behind him, as if to follow him out of bed — as if to keep him where he is.

But he doesn’t wake, and the monster gets to his feet, unhurriedly casting about for his underwear.

Alfred keeps the gun trained on him through it all, and never once looks away.

“It’s why we have to do it now.” His nudity covered, the monster comes up to the window and touches the glass. “Before it’s too late. And I’m ready, Alfred. Last night was the happiest night of my life, and this morning’s perfect. I’ve had it all, now, and things can’t get any better than this. So.” 

He turns, and his green eyes are bright as he looks Alfred in the eye across the barrel of the gun. 

Alfred swallows. 

“He’ll suffer,” he whispers. 

“He will.” The monster nods, the smile slipping away into sadness. “It’ll hurt him, no question. But not as much as he’ll suffer if Gotham gets her way.”

“We don’t know that she won’t, regardless.”

“Sure. But you’ll still have one less thing to worry about.” The smile’s back now, tinged with that same deep sadness. “I know you’ve wanted to get rid of me ever since you first started to suspect the truth about us. Now’s your chance.”

“He’ll never speak to me again.”

“Well, here.” Gently, the monster tips the gun up and steps closer, so it presses to the bottom of his jaw. “Like this. Then you can wipe the gun and put it in my hand. I’ve got the note ready and everything — it’s in the pocket of my coat. He knows about my… problems. He’ll never suspect it was you.”

That’s a lie, and they both know it. Bruce will find out eventually, and then Alfred _will_ lose him, for good this time.

But his boy will be alive and safe. He won’t be Batman. And in time, he’ll find a way to be happy again.

 _Will he?_ something whispers at the back of Alfred’s mind as he glances, once again, at Bruce’s unsuspecting face, and thinks back to an eight-year-old boy, desperately trying to hold back his tears at the police precinct after a gun destroyed his whole world in two blinks.

 _Tick-tock_ , the city warns. 

He looks back into the monster’s green eyes, and the monster looks back.

“Not here,” Alfred whispers. “I don’t want him to see.”

Slowly, the monster nods. 

“Just one more thing, then, if I may.”

He steps away, ignoring the gun pointed at his head. He walks up to the pants he left on the floor, and rummages in one of the pockets. 

“A goodbye,” he says, still smiling sadly. “I’ll make it short, I promise.”

There’s a small object in his hand. He goes back to the bed and slips it on the pillow, just by Bruce’s head. 

Then, he bends down and whispers in Bruce’s ear. It’s soft, but Alfred knows which words he said all the same, and for the first time, he lets the gun in his left hand quiver. 

The monster gives Bruce a kiss — slow and lingering, but delicate enough that it doesn’t wake him up. He gazes at him as he steps away from the bed, and slips on the black dressing gown Bruce must have worn last night and dropped over a chair. 

“I’ll be waiting downstairs,” he says, still gazing at Bruce. 

He walks out of the room backwards, slowly, his eyes fixed on the bed right up until he passes the threshold — as though he doesn’t want to waste a single second he could spend looking at Bruce. The smile wobbles on his face, cracking smaller and smaller with every step that takes him away; and for the first time, Alfred catches a glimpse of true, naked heartache in his eyes before he turns away.

Then the monster’s gone, and Alfred stands there for a moment, in the new stillness, listening to Bruce’s quiet breath. Then, he blinks, and finally lets the tears fall. 

He drops his left hand, his fingers relaxing around the gun. He walks up to the bed, and looks down at the thing on the pillow.

It’s a hand mirror. Small, opening up like a locket, the mirror on one side. The other bears a photograph, tucked into the corners: a polaroid of the two of them from last night, Alfred realizes with a jolt in his heart. They must have taken it after he left the room. It shows them sitting together, in the sweaters and the ridiculous handmade hats, grinning into the camera, heads bent together, their cheeks touching, their arms around each other. 

Slowly, Alfred drops the gun onto the bed and picks up the mirror, gazing at the picture. Then, he closes it, and looks at the other side.

The leather’s engraved at the back. 

_Thank you_ , it says. And below that, there’s a heart, drawn in a crude, almost childish hand, with the initials _J + B_ inside it. 

Alfred’s hand is trembling again as he drops it back on the pillow, picks up the gun, and leaves the room.

The monster waits for him downstairs in the parlor, just like he promised. Standing by the window next to the tree, his hand on the glass, his back to the door. 

Holding the edge of the dressing gown up to his mouth. 

“I’m ready,” he whispers, and turns, and tilts his chin up.

And closes his eyes. 

Alfred steps closer. He puts the gun up, points, and presses the muzzle into the monster’s jaw.

 _You have to_ , he tells himself. _Bruce will never be truly free while this creature lives. You’ll be doing it for him, and you’ve wanted to do it so many times in the past._

 _Tick-tock_ , whispers Gotham. 

The Joker holds his breath.

And now that he’s here, now that he’s got him under the gun, now that he’s this close, all Alfred can see is Bruce’s easy, beaming smile; and the pain in a little boy's eyes as he stood there, staring wetly, vacantly, at two coffins descending into the ground.

_Tick-tock._

_Tick-tock._

_Tick-tock._

Alfred’s stump hurts as he pushes the gun up harder, digging it into the Joker’s skin.

The Joker smiles, and a tear slips past his closed eyes.

Alfred’s hand trembles. 

He drops his arm.

“I can’t,” he whispers, as Joker stares at him in shock; as, all around him, the house releases the breath she’d been holding, and the wind outside beats against the walls in outrage. 

“I can’t do this to him,” Alfred says, looking not at the Joker, but at the city beyond.

The Joker opens his mouth, and moves for the gun.

And then the sound of footsteps running on the upper floor startles them both.

“Alfred?” Bruce calls out tightly, his feet thundering down the stairs. “Alfred, have you seen —”

Alfred only manages to slip the gun back into his jacket and clasp his trembling hands behind his back when Bruce stumbles into the parlor, the hand mirror clutched in his hand. He’s half naked, clad only in pajama bottoms, hair wild, eyes wide open, his entire face pale, drawn and locked in tension.

 _Not tension_ , Alfred corrects himself immediately. _Fear_.

Genuine, bone-deep fear, which melts away like snow under the sun as soon as his eyes fall on the Joker.

“Oh thank god,” Bruce breathes out, mouth already tugging into a smile which telegraphs nothing but relief. “There you are. I thought — I was afraid that you’d —”

He swallows hard around whatever it was he was going to say, and then abandons it. Instead, he crosses the room in just a few strides, and sweeps the Joker into his arms. 

“Relax, darling.” The monster laughs his carefully calculated little laugh, embracing him back. “I only wanted to take an early peek at the presents. Mr. Pennyworth caught me at it.”

He looks up at Alfred over Bruce’s shoulder, and his reddened eyes shine wetly, bright with something Alfred can’t altogether understand.

But he can read the _Why?_ in them well enough.

He shakes his head, helpless, and takes a step back, and then another, and another, until he collapses into a chair by the hearth. 

He can’t. He _can’t_. He knows exactly what his inaction — what his _weakness_ means, and still, he can’t. And if he had doubts before, the fear, and then the relief on Bruce’s face, settle them for good. 

He can’t do this to his child. And through that, he’s condemned them all.

“You look good in black,” Bruce whispers, breathlessly, cupping the monster’s cheek in one hand.

The monster smiles up at him, and the moment he does, the love in his eyes eclipses everything else. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. “Did you like your present?”

“It’s perfect.” Bruce’s voice trembles on the exhale as he squeezes the hand mirror and the monster both, or maybe that’s just Alfred’s heart. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I wanted to. Just a small souvenir. So you can remember —”

Bruce kisses him, and this time, Alfred doesn’t look away. 

_Tick-tock_ , Gotham whispers, urgently. 

But Bruce’s laughter tunes her out.


End file.
